Pluto in Retrograde
by convoitez
Summary: It is years later when Erik comes back for her. Coming to terms with old demons, each other, and themselves. EC, post-WWI.
1. It wakes me up inside

(It wakes me up inside – )

It was a summer morning of no particular consequence in rural France. The sun rose crushed and tired but no less bright and the clouds retreated beyond the horizon, leaving only a dry, sweltering heat and the occasional burst of wind. It was the kind of weather suited to hiding in cool parlours, sipping chilled tea and talking of inconsequential things, perhaps taking a short walk in the shaded gardens out back. It was the kind of day Christine looked forward to; the warmth felt lovely in her bones and the aches in her joints tended to melt away with the humidity.

She wasn't quite sure what made her decline tea and a stroll with her daughter and a music lesson with her granddaughter, usually the highlights of her increasingly shorter days. And she wasn't quite sure how she found herself sitting on the porch steps with a book – Dickens, of all things: she **hated** that insufferable English wet-nose. She pulled her hair free from its now-customary bun, letting it tangle in the harsh summer wind, and waited.

Beyond the large sprawling house, there was nothing but half a mile of dirt road unfolding over a field – a useless waste, in her opinion, she would have preferred the estate overrun with trees and flowers decades ago. However, as the Vicomtess de Chagny, there had been reputations to uphold and now, emerging somehow mostly unscathed from the too-recent war and terror, the other members of her household tended to cling to memories of older, more peaceful times. That much, at least, she could not grudge them.

So it was that she saw him, still a long way and a long time off, knew him before he was more than a smudge on the horizon. She smoothed down her dress with careful hands, tucked her hair behind her ear in an old nervous gesture she hadn't fallen back on in years, and cocked her head to the side, letting a small smile grace her lips. Making herself as comfortable as possible, she settled in with _Great Expectations_ and waited, occasionally glancing up to watch the distant figure making its way toward her.

It was a longer wait than she expected. Nearly eighty pages in, she heard the soft scuffle of feet on stone, the slightly uneven drag of a limp. Christine set her book carefully aside, held onto the railing as she descended the steps. The sun was already halfway down the sky, casting the beginnings of shadows over them both.

After a pause, she was the first to speak. She pursed her lips, opened them, found herself wanting to laugh. "Well, _bonjour_, monsieur. It's certainly been a while."

He did laugh, a throaty cackle not completely without its former malice. "Oh, Christine," he said, touched her cheek quickly and shyly. "Look at you." His hands brushed her shoulders, neck, flyaway hair, never for more than an instant. "Look at you."

"Not for years, thank you," she said, trying not to flush like a young girl under his gaze. Oh, how could she have _forgotten – _the old man's smile widened slightly, if slightly dampered by an assortment of new scars, his hand finally came to rest under her chin, tilting her head up.

"Christine," he breathed again, as if he simply enjoyed the sound of the word on his tongue, and then, "It's good to see you."

At loss for words, she simply shrugged. "You're thinner than you were," she said suddenly, not thinking it would be possible but he had managed somehow, as if he had been boiled down to nothing but bone and gristle. The one cheek she could see had sunken in, his hands were colder and knobbier than before. It was the loveliest sight she had seen in years.

"Only whittling away at the unessential," he told her with a shrug, "nothing important was lost." Even his voice, despite an unmistakable growl in the lower registers, seemed as beautiful as ever. "And you, Christine, time has treated you well."

She snorted – and again as he slanted a bristly grey eyebrow at the distinctly unladylike sound. "My daughter takes good care of me and my grandchildren are growing up happy. That is all an old woman can ask for, I suppose." Something in his eyes flashed: pity, perhaps? Sighing, she stepped away from him, breaking all contact. "Oh, Erik, why did you come? You can't just waltz back into my life and then leave things the way you found them. It doesn't work that way."

There was no answer. She didn't expect one.

They stood silently, at the base of the steps, under the far reaches of an apple tree, looking at each other over years of built-up silence. Finally, softly, something changed. "Then leave with me." He ignored her sudden bark and laughter and pressed on, a familiar honeyed tone entering his voice. She winced, but he didn't seem to notice. "There's nothing left for you here, Christine. You know there's more to life than tolerant daughters and happy grandchildren."

Her eyes flashed suddenly, dangerously. "Perhaps for you, Erik, but your trifles have been my life. They **are** my life, monsieur. You should not have come, I was happier with my memories." She smiled, a little sadly. "Good day and _aurevoir_, old friend." Without giving him time to respond or giving herself to cry like a damned fool, she tottered back up the steps and into the house, closing the door firmly behind her.

It wasn't until she stood at the window, watching him limp back the way he came, that she allowed the tears to fall.

It ended up that Christine did have that music lesson with Marguerite, a small, sweet child she tended to dote on entirely too often for her son's taste. She also sat in the parlour, drinking lemonade, and tried to get past one word of Dickens without her eyes crossing and her vision blurring. Finally, she gave up on anything resembling productivity and rose to stare out the window, where he had finally disappeared back into the heat waves and far-away trees. And there she stayed, until one of the maids came to announce supper.

"_Grand-mere_," Marguerite said softly – always softly, dear thing, tugging at Christine's hand as they entered the dining room. "Are you all right, _Grand-mere_? You look so sad."

Christine did her best to smile at the girl, not such a chore after all, and shook her head. "Don't worry about a foolish old woman, dear heart," she said, pressing a kiss to her fingers before smoothing them over the blonde curls. "I'll be fine."

As everyone bowed their heads in prayer, Christine watched her family, gathered around the table. There was Philippe: a good, if war-hardened man and his wife Jacqueline; her own, dear Charlotte, whose Jean-Luc had been lost in the fighting; silly, gangly Gregoire who was barrelling through Grace with all the usual subtlety of a thirteen-year-old boy; and of course, Marguerite, staring at her plate, a worried twist tainting her pretty mouth. "-Amen," Gregoire finished, his head snapping up automatically.

"Amen," Christine echoed. She let the maid serve her two spoonfuls of roasted potatoes before excusing herself from the table.

Quickly, before she lost her nerve – oh, God – she left her book of arias on the piano along with Raoul's old engagement ring – Marguerite had always coveted it anyways – and walked out her front door, calmly, carefully, resolutely not looking back.

The moon was new, and so she saw nothing of him until she reached the main road, nearly falling over the waiting carriage in the process. The door opened silently, in the sudden pool of lamplight she could see a hand extended to her. "My lady?" he greeted: apparently the years had done nothing to iron the sarcasm out of her voice. She took his hand and climbed in; as she settled herself on the padded seat, he tapped on the roof and they lurched forward into the night.

-

Soundtrack:

Poe – Strange Wind

Yo La Tengo – The Summer

This takes place in the years after WWI, exactly when is up to you. I'm thinking of continuing this: suggestions are more than welcome.

Hope you enjoyed! Thank you for reading.


	2. I'm growing old and I wanna go home

Disclaimer: Phantom belongs to a lot of people that aren't me. Woe.

This fandom? Is eating my brain. You're all awesome :) Enjoy, r/r, you all know the routine.

Soundtrack:

Rilo Kiley – God Knows We'll Try

Nick Drake – Black Eyed Dog

-

(I'm growing old and I want to go home -)

Erik let his fingers drum out an erratic rhythm on his knee and closed his eyes against the bile rising in his throat, even as he kept his ears open to the slightest movement outside the carriage. Slowly, carefully, he forced the angry knots curling his toes and stomach to relax, tried to focus his curdling mind on something – anything. Physics, perhaps. Relative theorems. Atoms, Kepler's laws, hell, he would do anything for a copy of Newton's papers at the moment: as long as it had nothing to do with **her**.

The sun had set some time ago, cooling the air to more bearable temperatures and softening the day's dry edges. Crickets chirped in counterpoint to birds rustling in the roadside trees, the horses tossed their heads in boredom while their handler whistled idly, and yet she did not come. There were moments when it was all Erik could do to stay put, when the effort of not luring her out made his entire body ache – after all, he hadn't lost his touch, not yet. But no, not this time. If he learned one thing from Christine Daae, come hell or high water, it would be patience.

He shifted in his seat and lit the one lantern, grimacing at its dull, yellow glow. It was instinct that had brought him back to France, and luck that had brought him news of the now-late Vicomte de Chagny, gone for nearly five years. When he had seen Christine waiting for him – some of her former delicateness turned brittle yet stronger than he ever imagined – for the first time in decades everything had seemed right, the way it should have been. She would come; she had to come. By the grace of God, if nothing else.

And if that didn't scare him then nothing else should. His track record with the Lord – when he bothered believing, which wasn't too often in any case – was about oh and fifteen hundred. When it came to inertia against the odds, he figured the chances were about even.

There was a soft sound outside; his fingers stilled and his breath caught in his throat. As he opened the door to see her standing there, indignant and resolute, relief flooded his veins. He had a sudden craving for morphine, hashish, hell – even a strong drink. Instead, he held out a hand, careful to keep it from shaking, and helped her up and into the carriage.

Erik watched Christine arrange herself just so, curling her legs with care, propping her chin on a spiderweb-veined fist as she stared out the window, as if it held the secrets to the universe. Or, if that seemed a little ambitious, at least an idea of what they were both doing. She was smiling though, perhaps from finding some sort of answer, and shaking her head slowly from side to side.

They sat so for several long minutes in the flickering lamplight: she had set his nerves to thrumming like piano wire, just as before, but he waited out her silence, nearly biting through his tongue in the process. Finally, her eyes re-focused on him, smile turning bemused.

"I must be going mad," she said softly, and continued before he had time to answer: "I'm far too old to be indulging in the whims of a decrepit old fool."

Erik raised a neutral eyebrow. "And which decrepit old fool are we talking about?" he asked carefully, letting the amusement creep into his words.

"Oh, as you please," she smiled serenely. He chuckled and to his surprise she joined in, a distinct wheeze entering her voice. Her eyes had dulled to a soft, washed-out blue, her voice was hardened from years of experience and her hair was nearly white, but the dreamy curve of her lips betrayed the girl he had loved all those years ago.

"We will reach Paris by noon tomorrow," he told her, reclining in his seat and grinning wryly as his joints crackled. "Unless you have a suitcase hidden somewhere in your skirts, we'll need to stop for a few items, but after that..." he trailed off uncomfortably, acutely aware of her smile and shaking shoulders. "What is it?" he all but snapped, eyes tightening behind the mask.

"You were always far too arrogant for your own good, Erik," she said, a spark in her eyes contradicting her flippant tone.

"Perhaps. You did say no and I left alone." He leaned forward and took her hands in his as she opened her mouth as if to speak. "But I knew you would come, because I know you. As you knew I would be waiting." Christine frowned but did not withdraw her hands – if anything, she pressed them closer. They stared at each other in an instant of almost unbearable familiarity, memories measured against memories, until he shrugged and turned away. "From Paris, we can go wherever you wish."

Her eyes lit up at that, as she folded her hands back in her lap, prim and proper as you please. "Anywhere?" He nodded. "Anywhere at all?" Another nod. "Well, then." For a few moments, she appeared lost in thought. "Ever since papa died, I haven't been anywhere but England. I know, it's a dreadful place," she said when he grimaced, "but it was the safest at... at the time." Erik nodded, but as he had never been one for words – not when they mattered anyways – he said nothing and watched the emotions flit across her face. Whatever her life had brought, she lied no better now than she did before. Then she shook her head, brightening as she chased away some demon, and reached out to place a careful hand on his knee. "And you Erik, what have you been doing all these years?"

So he told her of his travels in Greece, what he saw of the Russian revolution, the musical comedies that were all the rage in the Americas. Not once did he mention his music; not once did she ask. And when she finally dozed off, somewhere around the false dawn, he covered her with his cloak, pulled out a manuscript and a fountain pen, and began to write.

-

They arrived in Paris just before noon, twisting awkwardly through the streets around automobiles and crowds of pedestrians. The morning's rain had just stopped, and the streets steamed under the sudden, oppressive sun. Two blocks from what Christine recognised as her old flat, they stopped in front of a hotel. Erik woke with a start and grabbed his knee.

"It's all right," Christine said softly. "It seems we're here."

"Here? Erik asked dazedly, blinked once, and then he was fully awake, gathering the manuscripts scattered on the seat next to him before stowing them in a small leather bag. Christine watched, under the guise of twisting up the hair that had come undone while she slept; upon waking, she had looked over the scores now clutched in his hands. The twisted chicken-scratchings were the same as ever – he had written a simple melody, one she found herself humming as she read and her heart broke with the perfection of it.

Once her hair was secured, she smiled and accepted his offered hand to help her out of the carriage, ignoring the crackerjack pop of her hip. After a night and a morning of continuous jostling over old roads, her entire body felt uncooperatively stiff. Hiding a grimace, she waited for Erik to settle matters with the driver and allowed herself to look around – Paris never seemed to change, at least not the heart of her, that which mattered. Why, weren't that La Sorelli's old apartments down the street? How regal they had seemed at the time!

"I am still convinced there is no finer city," a voice said in her ear, only a hand on her shoulder kept her from whirling around. "Paris, museum of my twisted youth, vault of my dearest and most disgusting memories." She did turn then, to find his face impassive, eyes searching her for something – she was not quite sure what. "I need to fetch some things at the very least," he said finally. "Do you need to rest? You cannot have slept well."

She waved off his worry, slipping her hand under his arm as they walked through the front door, past the concierge – the picture they must have made! – and to a door that Erik unlocked. Inside was a cozy, immaculately clean room one lone valise on the bed. He left her at the door to retrieve it, slinging the bag across his shoulder along with the leather pouch. Suddenly, she understood.

"It seems you forgot the wardrobe along with the candles," Christine said, laughing as he grinned sheepishly.

"I did not think that far ahead," he admitted.

Her rusted heart skipped a beat.

-


End file.
